River

Not all Arab poems are about war, some are about the cyclamens the spring river grew north of Beirut my grandfathers’ wrinkled hands tapping their bent heads on my open palm, their pollen’s yellow craters demonstrating release, my gaped teeth making room for wonder and the anatomy of softer impacts.

the g train stalls under the east river and the driver says nothing for nine minutes my phone dies at 4 percent holding a photo half of a chicken cutlet going cold on the counter above me barges and a body of water older than brooklyn and a man across the aisle asks if I want gum